Every night Ma thanks me for having her live with us. Every night. Every night I tell her I am sorry. I never feel good enough for her. I am weighed down with guilt. I wish I could make things happier for her, make her life better, make things easier for her. I’m impatient, bossy, irritable instead.
Today was an example of things going wrong. Her friend, IL, came to see her. But IL ended up having an excellent conversation with Beloved and ignored Ma totally. I should have made them aware of Ma, turned the conversation to Dad and Ma, but I didn’t. They were having so much fun talking about politics, literature, music, travel, art. Ma was jealous and bitter. Occasionally she tried to talk but her voice was strangled and tight, she couldn’t get the words out. When IL turned her laughing face in Ma’s direction Ma would have swiped it if she could. She didn’t want IL flaunting her vitality, being more intelligent and charming than Ma could ever be. She wanted her old friend to show her some mercy, some understanding, some quiet comfort. No chance. IL wore golden coloured shoes.